It was about 10 p.m. Wednesday. I was taking my nightly walk through my quiet suburban neighborhood when I realized that something seemed wrong at a house just ahead.
I couldn’t tell what was going on, but I heard the low murmur of voices that didn’t sound happy. There was a car that seemed to be about half packed. The trunk and the doors were open. It was dark, so I couldn’t see much, but I knew there were people in the driveway.
I heard the low sound of a child sobbing. Then I heard a man’s voice. He wasn’t shouting or angry, but the voice was firm.
“I don’t want Mommy to leave, Amber, but that’s her choice.”
The soft, muffled sobbing continued. Then I was far enough past that I couldn’t hear what else might have been said.
And with that, I was a child again — just for a few minutes — reliving similar scenes from my own dysfunctional family’s past. Even though it’s been decades since I experienced those things, I could feel the feelings as if they were fresh. Hurt. Fear. Anger. Betrayal. Confusion. Mostly fear that I was being abandoned, although the child-size version of me didn’t have had the words to call it that.

I haven’t learned to stop walking on eggshells around angry people
For an American church, the Fourth of July should be just another day
Search for new partner leaves me wondering where she’s waiting
My endorsement goes to the man who can make coercive state work
Serious medical issue will limit
I’ve been sent to Facebook jail — and nothing about it makes sense
What if our best romantic decisions come by listening to ‘selfish genes’?
What’s the best word for those of us who just want to be left alone?
I struggle to fix the imperfection in myself and world around me